Click
by Laura Schiller
Summary: Newsroom AU. Reporter Joe Zimmerman and his camerawoman Annika Hansen have been a team for years. But when they're assigned to interview Joe's old love, what kind of secrets will they uncover?


Click

By Laura Schiller

Based on: _Star Trek: Voyager_

Copyright: Paramount

 _She's even prettier in person,_ was Annika Hansen's first thought upon meeting Tincoo.

The famous musician and composer was a dainty little woman with black hair and eyes and warm brown skin. She wore a sleek turquoise business suit that appeared simple, but had probably cost more than Annika's entire wardrobe.

Annika, who was a head taller and burdened by a heavy camera bag, felt like a clumsy oaf in comparison. Objectively she knew she was just as pretty, but preparing for an interview always had this effect on her. Even after four years of journalism school and five years in the field, she still got nervous. Thank God she was only the cameraperson and didn't have to talk.

She glanced over at her colleague, Joe, for reassurance. Joe, however, didn't seem to notice her. He was staring at Tincoo as if she were the only woman on the planet.

"You're from Delta News, aren't you?" Tincoo smiled politely.

"Yes. Yes, I am. I mean, we are." Joe blushed and looked at the floor as their interview source shook his hand. "I'm here for your interview, and this is Annika, my shooter. Cameraperson, that is."

Annika received a cool, perfumed handshake and an indifferent glance from Tincoo.

"Lovely to meet you, Annika. And you, Mr. … ?"

Joe's face snapped up. He blushed even deeper, if that was possible. "Tincoo, it's me. Joseph Zimmerman. You don't remember - ? You were in my year at university."

Tincoo tilted her glossy head and frowned up at him. "The choir?"

"Yes!" He smiled at her, one of those startling smiles that shone a light on his entire face.

"My goodness, I haven't seen you in ages!" Tincoo let out a high-pitched laugh. "Oh, Joe, you were such a talented singer. How did you end up as a reporter, of all things?"

Joe's smile faltered. Anyone who knew him less well than Annika did would probably have missed it. But seeing him hurt like that made her want to grab the little woman by the lapels of her expensive jacket and shake her.

"He's not just any reporter," Annika said tightly. "He's been hosting the evening show on our most popular news channel for ten years. He won the Lane Award for exposing corruption in the previous government."

Joe gestured modestly for her to stop, which she did.

"Oh my, that is impressive," Tincoo chirped. "I wish I followed politics more, but I just don't have the time. Besides, it's so sordid, you know?"

Sordid? Annika thought of how Joe sometimes stayed in his office until past closing time, waiting for calls that didn't come. How he triple- and quadruple-checked everything he wrote to make sure it was fair, and some obnoxious politician or CEO still complained about being misrepresented. How since Joe's article had come out about those secret government bank accounts, the Prime Minister had finally coughed up enough money for those health care reforms he'd been promising to make.

Annika clenched her jaw and said nothing.

She and Joe followed Tincoo's rapidly clicking high heels through a hotel lobby lit by a chandelier, the walls covered in modern art that looked to Annika's uncultured eyes like random splashes of paint. Every surface she looked seemed either black, white or metallic. The floor was so shiny, she could see her own reflection.

They reached Tincoo's hotel suite, where her manager, a middle-aged man as sleek and polished as she was, made small talk and helped Annika set up her equipment: tripod, camera, microphones.

Joseph, who had never been anything but professional during this part of the job, fidgeted as Annika pinned the mic to the front pocket of his shirt. His chest rose and fell rapidly. His breath stirred her hair.

"You'll be fine," she whispered to him, while Tincoo and her manager were on the opposite side of the room.

He let out an awkward little laugh. "Isn't that usually what I tell you?"

Lost for words, she brushed a speck of lint off his shirt and stepped away.

"So, Joseph, shall we?" said Tincoo, gesturing to the set of armchairs carefully positioned by the window.

He took a deep breath and was suddenly all business, leaning forward in his chair as he asked her questions about her latest album.

Annika found it hard to take her eyes off him, even as she kept her camera trained on them both. It never ceased to impress her, the way Joe could transform. He was a plain man, but when doing the work he loved, his charisma made the air electric.

"So tell me," he said, holding out his cupped palm to Tincoo, as if any information would be a precious gift, "What made you take your work in such a radically new direction?"

Tincoo smiled demurely, looking up at him from under her eyelashes. "Oh, you haven't seen me 'radical' yet," she said. "Actually, it was Ken who inspired me. Kenneth Carpenter, my manager?"

She gestured to her balding, middle-aged companion, who was sitting at the hotel room's desk in a swivel chair. Annika followed the gesture with her camera. The manager smiled proudly when he saw the lens trained on him.

"As I'm sure you know, I double-majored in music and mathematics," Tincoo continued. "Ken and I share a fascination with numbers, and how they're basically the fabric that underpins our entire reality. We thought, if we could apply mathematical principles to my music, how far could we push the boundaries between art and science?"

The celebrity and her manager shared a glowing look that didn't strike Annika as very professional.

"Sounds fascinating," said Joe. "Could you explain how that works – in simple terms, please, for the laypeople in the audience? Which includes me, I'm afraid."

Tincoo giggled and launched into an explanation so abstruse that Annika, who did not consider herself stupid, could not make head or tail of it.

"Although," she wound up, "Really, the only equation that matters here is the simplest one of all – one plus one."

Mr. Carpenter suddenly turned pink in the face and jumped up from his seat.

"Ma'am," he sputtered, "Are you sure that – I thought we discussed - "

"What better time than now, darling?" said Tincoo. "Wouldn't you rather announce this to just one reporter than twenty at once? Besides, Joseph and I are old friends. The least I can do is give him an exclusive."

Mr. Carpenter calmed down. He came to stand behind Tincoo's armchair and put his hands on her shoulders in a proprietary way, and she reached up to cover his hands with hers.

Annika hurried to pan her camera away from Joe's heartbroken face.

"Yes, that's right," said Tincoo, smiling radiantly. "Ken and I are getting married!"

/

A few endless minutes of wedding-plan trivia later, Annika and Joe finally escaped into the Delta News van. Joe gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands as they trundled out of the hotel parking lot, only to be promptly caught up in downtown traffic. He cursed.

"The story's not due until tomorrow," she said, leaning back against the passenger seat. "We have time."

"I know!" he snapped. "Sorry. I didn't mean to – it's not that."

They sat in the car, a classical music channel not doing much to counter the heavy silence.

"I didn't know you studied music," she finally said, blurting out the first thing that came to mind.

She had heard him sing once, at a karaoke night with some colleagues. He had persuaded her to come with him under the guise of "networking", and even though she hated parties, sitting in a quiet corner with him and trading wry remarks about everyone else's silly behavior had made the night worth it. As for his singing, she would never forget it as long as she lived. He had a beautiful voice, strong but tender, and he had seemed to really feel the song in a way she could never pull off, even though she had a decent alto herself.

The next morning, he had shrugged it all off. _No big deal, I was drunk,_ he'd said.

"I did, yes," he said. "Never quite good enough to make a living out of it, though. I took a few writing electives because I liked them, switched over to journalism … my parents were quite relieved, I can tell you. Although my father would have still preferred me to be a doctor."

Annika's throat ached with unspoken empathy. She knew him quite well by now, and yet he'd never mentioned this part of his life. Not being considered a good enough musician must have hurt him more than he would admit.

Her own parents, who had died young in a car accident, had been two of the greatest scientists of their generation. Their award collection sat on her desk at home. Her Aunt Irene assured her they would have been proud of their daughter, but somehow she didn't feel that filming vain celebrities was quite on par with developing sustainable energy sources or clean up toxic waters.

"Joe … "

"Hmm?"

"After we finish editing, let's go to Sandrine's."

He took one hand off the wheel to clap her on the shoulder. "You read my mind."

She felt the brief touch for a long time after it ended.

/

Sandrine's was a bar near the Delta News building where media people tended to collect after hours. Annika disliked the place, crowded and noisy as it was, but she knew Joe found it comforting, with its wood-paneled décor, craft beer and the grand piano in the corner.

Joe slammed down his shot glass and glared at the bar counter as if he could see Tincoo's face in it.

"It was inappropriate," he said, not for the first time. "That's what it was. We work for Delta News, not some gossipy tabloid. We were there to talk about her work, damn it, not her personal affairs!"

"Personal affairs pull in the viewers," Annika pointed out. "Janeway," their editor, "Told us often enough."

"Screw the viewers." Joe poured himself another shot. "That guy's not even good-looking. He must be, what, forty?"

Joe's own age. Annika was beginning to lose her patience, and the cocktails swirling around inside her didn't help. She had a low tolerance for both alcohol and stupidity.

"If you knew you had a history together, why didn't you claim a conflict of interest? Janeway could easily have sent someone else."

" _Because I thought -_ " Joe caught the eye of a disapproving bartender, realized he was shouting, and swayed alarmingly on his bar stool as humiliation seemed to hit him with an almost physical force.

"I thought I was over it," he said, in a cracked whisper that could hardly be heard in the crowded bar. "My God, she left me twenty years ago."

Annika could easily imagine how an old schoolmate could haunt someone, off and on, for that long. You might forget them for months at a time, but eventually something always came up to remind you.

At twenty-seven, she still remembered her high school and university years as if they were yesterday – often painfully so. She had been a skinny, spotty, towheaded girl too smart for her own good. By the time she developed curves, the few boys who were attracted by them had been scared off by her lectures about computers and cameras. As for the men she liked, they tended not even to notice her feelings - unless she told them point-blank, which also scared them away. Flirting was a science she'd never learned.

"I understand," she said quietly.

"Do you?" Joe demanded, his hazel eyes flashing. "How can you? You're the most pragmatic person I've ever met. Do you have any idea what it feels like to be in love?"

That hurt, in more ways than she could even process at the moment. The room reeled around her like a ship's deck; the laughter of strangers and the cheesy '80's pop music in the background pierced her ears.

"You … " she rasped. " _You_ have no idea."

She climbed down clumsily from her bar stool, holding on to the counter with one hand, preparing to leave.

"What - ?" Joe caught her arm, a friendly, concerned gesture that stopped her in her tracks.

Whatever she might have said next, though, it was drowned by a screech of feedback from a microphone at the back of the bar. A disco ball lit up, flashing red and blue lights that made her dizzy and forced her to sit back down.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said the owner of the bar, a curly-haired, smoky-voiced lady who might or might not be named Sandrine. "Welcome to Karaoke Night!"

Joe's curse was swallowed up by a roar of applause.

"Song book's right over there." Sandrine pointed to a battered folder lying on a chair in front of her. "Now which of you brave souls wants to sign up? Meanwhile, I'm gonna start you off with one of my favourites. Hit it, Neelix!"

One of her employees, a chubby man with blond sideburns and a face full of freckles, fired up the karaoke machine and began to dance.

Sandrine began belting out "I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor at the top of her lungs.

Annika would never know what came over her, whether it was the music, the alcohol, Joe's words, or some fateful combination of all three. She grabbed her colleague by the wrist and tugged him through the crowd towards the song book.

"You can't be serious!" Joe shouted above the noise. "After I _begged_ you to be my duet partner last time - "

"I'm always serious," she shouted back. "That's the whole problem!"

Looking over her shoulder, she saw that he was grinning.

Fortunately for her, the songs were arranged by title in alphabetical order, so it didn't take her long to point out to Neelix which one she wanted to sing. Sandrine's assistant recorded both their names with an approving chuckle, not seeming to notice how Annika's hands shook with adrenaline.

Before she knew it, she and Joe were up on the stage, sharing a mic stand, close enough to feel each other's body heat, but not touching. She couldn't look him in the eye; if she did, she might do something stupid, like run away, or throw her arms around him. Instead she stared at the lyrics as they appeared on the projector, glittering by the light of the disco ball, even though she had them nearly memorized.

The song was "Alone", by a band called Heart, written in 1983. The year her parents met.

"' _Til now, I always got by on my own._

 _I never really cared until I met you._

 _And now it chills me to the bone –_

 _How do I get you alone?"_

Annika could hardly believe what was coming out of her mouth. She often sang when she was alone in her apartment, especially while cleaning, but she did it quietly so as not to disturb the neighbors. This was anything but quiet. Her throat and lungs were stretched to their full capacity, and it felt glorious. Her foot began to tap, her hips to sway. Her hair was coming out of its twist; she tossed the errant strands out of her eyes. She felt like a tightly sealed box about to blow open.

Joe took over the second verse.

" _You don't know how long I have wanted_

 _to touch your lips and hold you tight._

 _You don't know how long I have waited_

 _and I was gonna tell you tonight … "_

God, he sounded like he meant it. That was what made him so successful as a TV journalist; he always sounded sincere. He genuinely wanted to know people's stories. He threw himself into whatever he was doing, interviews or karaoke, without holding back. He gave his all.

She loved that.

She loved him.

Somehow or other, they got through the song, clasped hands and took a bow. She hardly noticed; there were fireworks going off inside her head.

As they stepped off the stage, a crowd of eager performers lined up in front of Neelix, jostling them into the dark hallway that led to the bathrooms. It was quieter here, with more room to breathe. Perfect.

"Tincoo's not worth your time," Annika said. "You deserve so much better."

She pinned Joe to the wall and kissed him hard.

His first reponse was to kiss her back, just as fiercely, with one hand at her waist and the other destroying what remained of her hairstyle. Pins clattered to the floor. She couldn't care less.

Then he pushed her away so suddenly that, off balance as they both were, she landed on the opposite side of the narrow hallway.

"Hold on, hold on," said Joe. "This - this is a bad idea."

"Why?"

"You're, uh – you're not exactly sober."

"Neither are you. So?"

The way he raised his eyes to the ceiling was all too familiar. She must have heard it a million times when she'd asked him to redo a shoot because the light was wrong, or when their editor sent him to do an art piece when he wanted to chase corrupt billionaires instead. At a time like this, it was infuriating.

"Look, it's not that I don't – I mean, you're really – for God's sake, Annika, I'm old enough to be your … "

He swallowed the word "father"; even this drunk, he seemed to remember that thirteen years wasn't that high of an age difference after all.

But her surge of confidence had drained away as quickly as it had come, leaving her cold and humiliated in the drafty, beer-smelling hallway. She locked her hands behind her back.

"It's fine," she said, her voice coming out stiff and mechanical, as it always did when her emotions got the best of her. "I'm fine. Forget about it."

"Please don't look like that." He held out his hand to her, exactly the same way he had done during his interview with Tincoo. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Forget it," she repeated one last time, before turning to run.

Let him take the car. She could see herself home, damn it. At least she only lived a block away.

/

The next morning, she arrived at work with a splitting headache and a severe case of embarrassment. She kept her head down during the staff meeting, answered in monosyllables when spoken to, and hurriedly volunteered to shoot a tech company's product launch with B'Elanna Torres. Even spending a day with her least favourite colleague was preferable to spending it with Joe right now.

"Rough night, Hansen?" asked B'Elanna, eyeing her sideways as they headed for the parking lot. "I didn't think you had those."

"I don't understand men," said Annika.

B'Elanna's laugh was surprisingly kind. "You're not the only one."

But she couldn't put off seeing Joe forever, as appealing as that sounded right now. He needed to approve the final version of Tincoo's story. Her manager-slash-fiance had e-mailed them a sample of the new album, complete with video. It had to be squeezed in somehow, even if it meant cutting several of Tincoo's quotes to fit the time limit. (Annika took a secret, petty satisfaction in dragging clips of the other woman's face to the trash bin.)

"Afternoon," said Joe, peering over her shoulder at the screen.

She jumped.

"My apologies," he said, patting her on the back. "I know how you get when you're editing. Maybe I should wear combat boots."

For a moment, it felt like any other day between them – then he backed away nervously and the events of yesterday all came rushing back.

"So. Ahem. What have you got there?"

She passed him a spare set of headphones and hit Play.

He nodded along to the interview footage at first, muttering to himself as usual. But the more he saw of himself and Tincoo onscreen, the quieter he became, and the more he began to blush.

"Good Lord," he said, taking off the headphones at the end with a look of disgust. "Talk about a conflict of interest. _'Sounds fascinating'?_ Did I say that? What am I, her groupie?"

To be fair, flattering his subjects was part of his technique, unless he was doing an expose. Still, Annika knew what he meant. He wasn't usually quite so deferential. Besides, Tincoo was visibly basking in his attention. She was frozen onscreen in the arms of her fiancé, beaming into the camera with a smile that was more smug than blissful. She was much less beautiful this way.

"Her music video's here," said Annika, pulling up the file.

Her lips twitched, trying not to smile. She was curious to see how he'd react.

Tincoo's composition was, in fact, the most horrific noise she'd ever heard. It was like listening to a hundred different cell phone ringtones going off at once.

Joe scrunched up his face as if in pain … then he burst out laughing.

Before long they were both laughing themselves silly, expelling a whole day's worth of tension in a few seconds.

"You can't do that to our viewers!" was the first thing Joe said when he could breathe again.

"But we have to," Annika argued, wiping her eyes. "It's not as if - " (another laugh) " – her explanation made any sense. How else will they know what she's talking about?"

"A few seconds maybe?"

"Ten, and then fade out."

"Done."

She wrapped up the piece quickly, saved it, and sent it to Janeway for final approval. But when she swiveled her chair around, expecting Joe to be halfway across the room, he was still standing there.

"Annika … may I buy you coffee?" he asked. "I think we need to talk."

/

There was a coffee machine in the newsroom (two, if you counted the broken one), but Joe and Annika knew without asking each other that they didn't care to be overheard. So they left the building, tiptoeing like teenagers skipping school (or so Annika imagined, since she had never skipped school in her life).

She dreaded the upcoming talk, but Joe had asked her so kindly it would have been beyond rude to say no. Besides, after that laugh they had shared, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe they could find a way to stay friends, in spite of what had happened. Maybe.

Or not.

The nearest coffee shop in the mall that housed Delta News was almost empty, except for the barista, a very young Asian man who looked downright eager for some customers to break up his routine.

"Afternoon, Harry," said Joe. "That'll be a small mochachino and a regular black coffee, please."

"Will that be one bill or two?"

"One," said Joe. "That is, if you - "

"I don't mind," Annika said, even they had always paid separately before.

Harry the barista, looking rather flustered, whipped up their drinks in a hurry and almost gave Joe the wrong change. As soon as they sat down, he disappeared into a storage room, to Annika's great relief; she couldn't have coped with an eavesdropper.

"Ah …nice place, isn't it?" said Joe, waving his drink straw around the shop, which was identical to all the others in the franchise. "I should come here more often."

"Are you sorry that we kissed?" Small talk would only delay the inevitable. If he was going to put her out of her misery, he'd better do it fast. "I'm not – but I can leave you alone if that's what you prefer."

He made a sound somewhere between a whistle and a sigh. "You know, you're wasted behind the camera. It really should have been you confronting the PM that day. You're fearless. I've always admired that."

Fearless? She was scared out of her mind. She glared at him.

"What I came here to say is … " He took a long sip of his frothy drink. "You gave me a lot to think about last night. I feel like an idiot, honestly. We've been working together for so long … "

There it was. Any minute now, he'd be telling her that their working relationship was too valuable to risk for the sake of one kiss. And she agreed, she really did. It was logical.

So why did the best coffee in Delta City suddenly look and taste like black mud in a Styrofoam cup?

"I was so preoccupied with someone out of my reach," he said, "That I missed what was right in front of me. It's unpardonable, Annika, I know. But I do hope you'll pardon me nonetheless."

In spite of what he believed about her interviewing potential, words had never been Annika's strong point. She was a technician, not a poet.

So the only response she could think of was to lean across the table and give the man she loved another kiss, a soft slow one this time, one that tasted of coffee and cream.

She almost wanted to thank Tincoo for inadvertently giving them this chance. Almost.

"Hey, Joe," said an amused male voice. "I hate to interrupt, but you're on air in ten."

Annika's eyes fluttered open. Tom Paris, sports reporter, was standing in front of them with an ear-to-ear grin on his face. "Looks like I won the betting pool."

"Impeccable timing, Paris, as usual," said Joe, rolling his eyes.

They picked up their coffee cups and grinned at each other behind Tom's back as they returned to the newsroom.


End file.
